


The Ballad of Mona Lisa

by adleresque



Series: The Ballad of Mona Lisa [1]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: ACD Canon, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-22
Updated: 2013-08-22
Packaged: 2017-12-24 06:40:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,685
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/936598
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/adleresque/pseuds/adleresque
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set during "The Final Problem", in which Holmes escapes three attempts at his assassination by Moriarty's men and is summoned to investigate the theft of Mona Lisa in the Louvre, where he meets, for the second and last time in his lifetime, the dubious Irene Adler. And it's in Paris where they spend two nights together, and three days, three days which seem like three eternities. It's sinful how many mysteries Paris, La Ville-Lumière, can hold.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Ballad of Mona Lisa

"You are afraid of something?" Watson had asked.

"Well, I am."

"Of what?"

"Of air-guns."

Watson's worry written on his face, he quickly inquired his old friend further."My dear Holmes, what do you mean?"

"I think that you know me well enough, Watson, to understand that I am by no means a nervous man. At the same time it is stupidity rather than courage to refuse to recognize danger when it is close upon you. Might I trouble you for a match?" Holmes drew the smoke of his cigarette and such ecstasy washed over his face, as if it brought a soothing influence to his very soul.

He had came unexpectedly at John Watson's private home, in which he and his wife, who was currently at her aunt's residence for the week-end, resided during their happy marriage. Wedlock had suited him, just as Holmes had remarked earlier.

Of course, Holmes and Watson had visited each other briefly, despite the interference of Watson's personal life in their mutual relations, as Holmes still came to his house from time to time when he had desired a companion for his investigations, but those occasions grew seldom overtime, until in the year 1890 in which Watson had recalled and documented only three cases. During the winter of the year and the spring of 1891, Watson had read in the papers that his companion had been summoned by the French government for a matter of supreme importance, and had received two notes from Holmes, dated from Narbonne and from Nimes, from which the Doctor had concluded that Holmes' stay in France was likely to be a long one. Thus came his utmost surprise once he saw him walk into his consulting-room in the evening of April 24th, looking thinner and paler than usual.

Explaining he had been pressed lately, more so than he liked to admit, Holmes lit his cigar and sat down with Watson at the fireplace, and after the peculiar mention of air-guns which brought a true line of worry upon his forehead.

"I must apologize for arriving so late." he had said, "and I must further beg you to be so unconventional as to allow me to leave your house presently by scrambling over your back garden wall."

"But what does this all mean, Holmes?"

He extended out his hand, and Watson glimpsed a sight of his two knuckles burst and bleeding under the light of the lamp. A light in his eye gave Watson a hint to reassure him.

"Mrs. Watson is upon a visit."

"Indeed! You are alone?"

"Quite."

"Then it makes it the easier for me to propose that you should come away with me for a week to the Continent!"

"Where?"

"Oh, anywhere. It's all the same to me."

"But, dear fellow" Watson had insisted, impatiently clutching the armrests of his chair. "What happened in France?"

Holmes' eyes gleamed the moment he had mentioned it, and as if drifted his thoughts away from the current problem. "Ah, yes." he said with a sigh, and stared at the ceiling. "The French affair of the Mona Lisa. I admit I owe you an explanation as to my unexpected departure."

"I'll take some notes, if I may!" Watson took his pen and notebook and set them in his lap.

"Oh, by all means, do!" Holmes sat back in his chair and crossed his legs, putting an index finger up to his lips. "You'll be happy to hear of my adventures in France, dear Watson" he teased. "and especially of my encounters there."

"Then do tell me, Holmes!"

A smile grew on his lips as he began telling the story of his own French affairs at the time. "This case, this case," he whispered. "It is unique in the anals of crime! You will recall, it was a cold morning at the end of last year when I last left Baker Street. I was still situated in London, as you know, presumably two weeks after our last case together. I knew you had been finishing up your notes on it and should have been sending me it by mail soon enough, and so I was occupied in my 'dreadful early-morning experiments' - Mrs. Hudson's words, not mine - as I waited for the mail to arrive. It did, and it indeed came with a surprise. A letter of foreign paper and postmark lay in the Peterson's hands, I immediately knew the importance of what had been awaiting me written in that royal ink. I had no information whatsoever. I left immediately, by a carriage ordered especially for me that had been waiting on Baker Street, with no knowledge of where or by whom I had been summoned. All I knew was that it was important and abroad." he drew the smoke of his cigarette and continued. "My destination was the Museum du Louvre in Paris."

 

-

And Holmes' client: none less than the French government. It had been a beautiful day in Paris, the market blooming with people and rushed words, the trees sporting a fresh green, the sky free from clouds and clear as a diamond. Holmes had made his way through the crowd and down the lane leading to The Louvre's entrance, as he clutched a cane in his right hand. Entering the hall, he had been welcomed by two gentlemen with thick French accents, who showed him around and introduced him to the pure 'heart of France' that was the museum. The three of them walked around the peaceful and glorious setting of the building which looked like a palace of art and history, and visited each hall, however Holmes' two welcomers seemed to be rushing through and trying to make smooth small talk while they led him to their destination. It was the largest hall in The Louvre, with marble floors and marble columns, royal red paint and scarlet-coloured drapes with golden strings intertwined with the silk, it was just majestic, the air filled with authority and exquisite taste for the fine arts.

Holmes walked around as he noticed the pace of the two gentlemen accompanying him grow slower, and he knew right there and then that this was the destination for which they had wished.

"Sure this part of the Louvre is close to the very heart of France; and it was here where the Great Napoleon Bonaparte was married to the Archduchess, the Marie Louise of Austria, indeed it is but a history lesson in stone!"

Holmes walked around and faced a blank portion of a wall with two hooks hanging and nothing hung at the bottom of them, and placed his hand at the centre of the empty spot, where a painting ought to have been hung.

"Gentlemen, shall we come to the point?" he said, a bored tone in his voice, as his hand struck the white wall beneath it. "I presume the Mona Lisa has been stolen."

The other man who spoke in a much thicker French accent now looked mortified and looked over to his companion, shouting something fluently at him in a deep French tone.

"No, no!" his colleague protested in an attempt to calm him down.

"When I see two hooks" Holmes scrambled into the conversation. "and the place where the Mona Lisa used to hang... and the air of scandal..." he shook a head at one of the gentlemen and walked over to him slowly, languidly, before he continued. "And, see, now I begin to understand the delicacy of the matter."

-

As all three of them scrambled down a flight of stairs into the large basement which served as a storage for all masterpieces, one of the men explained that the Louvre was closed on Mondays for maintenance. Holmes gathered from all this that the fact that the Mona Lisa was not hanging in her usual place was result to the fact that she was in the photographic studio. It was only later in the day that a workman found the frame in a little storeroom under the Salon Carre.

As Holmes examined the frame found by the workman, one of the suited escorts came up to him.

"We put the glass on the painting a month ago" explained the man with the thicker French accent.

"How very fortunate."

"Pardon?"

"Two good thumb prints." remarked Holmes and withdrew his magnifying glass. "Show me to the storage."

-

The two accomplices led Sherlock Holmes down a large marble hallway, a level deeper underground than the previous rooms, and one of them stayed to guard behind the large metal door they passed. Holmes closed it shut behind him and walked up the corridor, which was in its width big enough only for three men to walk through.

"Many artists come here to make copies" the man explained, and Sherlock Holmes topped in his place to face an open door to his left, and, curiously putting an index finger to his lips, he briefly examined the room.

He walked in and was surrounded by smaller and bigger versions of the Mona Lisa, all beautiful, embodied with rich colours and perfect anatomy, undeniable treats for the eye that recognizes fine art.

"This one seems well done." Holmes pointed at the one in the centre.

"Yes. That artist is incredibly clever, monsieur. He makes a good living from his copying."

"I should like to meet him sometime."

He did. An arrangement was soon formed and only later in the afternoon was the date set.

A big studio, clearly that of a wealthy and successful artist, bathed in the rich white light of the day caught Holmes' attention immediately. It smelled of paints, oils and acrylics, and was filled with canvases from wall to wall, some laid down on the ground, unfinished, others hung upon the walls and even from the ceiling. A mess, much like Holmes himself enjoyed and understood the need of.

The artist himself was clothed with the newest French attire, clearly a man of taste and furnished style. He hardly had a way with words, but he was quite clever at his craft and knew his way around all terminology. Holmes listened carefully as the artist explained to him the very methods of creating a good copy, and was reluctant, although not too surprised, to find that the man said the finest and most important trick in creating a duplicate faux is retained as his own secret.

Holmes observed the fake Mona Lisa more carefully.

"It seems to me that this is something near to legitimate forgery."

It was then when the gentleman accompanying him piped into their conversation. "No, no, no, no" he rushed his words. "Because the copies must never be the same size as the original."

"A-and who would buy one of my copies as the original when the real Mona Lisa is in the Louvre?!"

"But if by chance the Mona Lisa is no longer in The Louvre..." Holmes suggested subtly.

A worried surprise washed over the artist's face and darkened his features. "Oh-oh, but of course you are joking, monsieur?"

Holmes looked down and fiddled with his cane. "Thank-you for meeting me." he simply said and walked away, "Come on" he nodded at his companion. "I must see the minister."

-

Happily the French police are well ahead of the British when it comes to fingerprints. Holmes had been more than flattered to find that the great Berteon himself had kindly referred to Holmes' little pamphlet on the subject as 'his Bible'. As Holmes had suspected, the man had been involved in petty crime in the past.

As they went over documents and criminal files on the Minister's desk, Holmes quickly jolted up from his chair once the name had risen in front of his eyes and in his memory. A man by the name of Mandosa.

"There!" he exclaimed. "There is your thief, gentlemen."

"Not a pleasant specimen!"

Holmes chuckled at the remark.

"Indeed."

"Mr. Holmes, France owes you the greatest debt."

"We have not got the man, and even more so, the painting!" Holmes chimed up. "Gentlemen, don't panic, it is my belief that the painting is still in Mendosa's keeping. I can assure you, the man is merely a pawn in a game of a much bigger scale!"

"What do you mean, Mr. Holmes?"

"This robbery has been carefully planned, months, years even!" he made a pause, and his voice lowered down considerably. "I believe this is the work of a criminal mastermind."

The minister laughed nervously. "But surely, what criminal mastermind would want the Mona Lisa? That is madness, he can't possibly sell it!"

"I've come to believe he is not interested in the original. If he can pass the forgeries as originals for the same price--- Gentlemen" he put a finger up to his lips in his own fashion and caught their attention.

He had thought up a plan to alarm Mandosa and get him on the move, so he could lead them to the centre of the web. He proposed something simple and safe, an eloquent message to the public that would not cause harm to the government or panic in the media. It was all carefully planned and even more carefully executed.

While the news had been out, Holmes tracked Mandosa's movements with the help of the French police and, on the very next morning, already had a plan to thwart him into arrest. It was early, and the flower market was already full with waves of people, but it was hardly difficult to recognize the man when once Holmes has had his face memorized. And the fact that he carried a package wrapped with expensive paper and a red bow tied over it under his arm, and his ill-fitted costume, both spoke volumes of his current occupation. Holmes had the police on alert all around the market, and stood beside one impatient chief officer.

"Wait." Holmes had said to him. "Wait for my signal."

Mandosa, in his petty disguise, strolled down the cobble path and, after slicing his way through the crowds, sat down on a bench and set the painting beside him.

"Now would be the perfect timing, Mr. Holmes!"

"Shh." cooed Holmes in reply and waited patiently. "Not yet."

He felt a brush on his shoulder, but as he turned around, he saw no-one. _One of the crowd_ , the thought.

Another man, well-dressed, a sharp black suit with spit-shined leather shoes and a tophat, came from the other end of the crowd and joined him on the bench, as if they were strangers. Mandosa then nodded sharply and stood up, leaving the painting behind. The other man took the painting under his arm and stood up, walking away briskly.

"Now." said Holmes, voice low and dangerous, and police came rushing through the crowd, snatching Mandosa out of the market.

"Perfect." Holmes murmured and retreated backwards, waving a hand at the chief officer in command.

Holmes had returned to his hotel room, some expensive service for which the French government paid entirely, and in leaving his hat and jacket on the coat hanger, he noticed something peculiar. One pocket of his jacket felt heavier, and he decided to see what was wrong. Peeking in, he took out a small envelope, half in size of a regular one with no postmark or signature.

He opened it and took out a note from it, a torn piece of fine, crisp French paper, on which was written an address, and the words _to-night_. Holmes stared at it and was reluctant to acknowledge that he failed to deduce anything from it, apart from the fact that the writing was male and the paper was thin, possibly torn from a piece of special graphic paper for documents. Of course, anyone could get their hands on it, for a price. But no data whatsoever.

The bell on his apartment rang, and he folded the note, tucking it away in his pocket, and stood up to see who's at the door, leaving the envelope behind.

On its back there was a red lipstick stain, a formed kiss, in a deep blood red colour.

**Author's Note:**

> This is a work for the Let's Write Sherlock challenge on tumblr.  
> It's done last-minute and is not beta-read due to a push of a due date.  
> Although, Professor Moriarty is right: The brain works much better with a deadline.


End file.
